I.
Since that day of terror two years had elapsed, years of silent
endurance for them both; each suffering alone. For they were parted;
with only the solace of a brief meeting now and then, when she could go
and see him where he was spending those two years, the days slowly
dragging past, in the prison among the sand-hills.
He had given himself up at once to the police of Scheveningen, as if he
were walking in his sleep, and had been taken to the House of Detention.
He had stood his trial--it had lasted six weeks--a short time, his
lawyer had said to comfort him, because there was no mystery to clear
up; the murder was proved to a demonstration, beyond the shadow of a
doubt, to be the result of a quarrel. This was evident also from the
evidence of Miss Rhodes, who had stated that the criminal himself had
not at first understood that his friend was dead, for that he had
immediately after kicked him two or three times to rouse him, thinking
he was only in a state of collapse; and that this had taken place in her
presence. The trial was watched with interest by the public; and their
sympathy was aroused when the purchase of the letters came out through
the evidence of Sir Archibald and his daughter, confirmed by William,
whose presence was secured by diplomatic interference. There were no
difficulties; six weeks settled everything. Frank was sentenced to two
years' imprisonment, and the case was not taken to a higher court.
He had spent the time, day after day, in a waking dream of gloomy
lucidity, with always, always the sinister vision of that writhing body,
and the horror of that dreadful battered face before his eyes. He had
felt it glide over the pages of his book when he tried to read, among
the letters he traced when he tried to write,--what he scarcely knew,
fragments of an account of his travels through America and Australia--a
melancholy employment and full of pain, since every word reminded him of
the murdered man who had been his constant companion. And when he did
nothing, but gazed in dreary reverie out of the window of his cell,
there, just below, and not very far away, he could see the villa where
they had dwelt together and where he had done the deed, with a glimmer
of the sea, a shining grey streak; and in fancy he could smell the briny
scent, as in the days when he had spent hour after hour, with his feet
on the balustrade--the hours which, as they crept on, though he knew it
not, were bringing inevitable doom on them both, every moment nearer. So
it never left him; it haunted him incessantly.
Eva had entreated her father to remain at the Hague during all this
terrible time, and Sir Archibald had consented, fearing for his
daughter's health. Her natural sweet equanimity had given way to a
fitful nervousness, which tormented her with hallucinations, visions of
thunder and of blood. So they had settled in the Van Stolk Park, and
all through Frank's imprisonment she had been able to see him from time
to time, coming home more exhausted from each visit, in despair over his
melancholy, however she might try to encourage him with hopes for the
future, later on, when he should be free. She herself could hope, nay,
lived only on hope; controlling her excitability under the yoke of
patience, and of her confidence in something brighter which might come
into her life, by-and-by, when Frank was free. A new life! Oh, for a new
life! and her spirits danced at the thought--and new happiness! Great
God! some happiness! She did not herself understand how she could still
hope, since she had known so much of life and of men, and since she had
lived through that fearful experience; but she would not think of it,
and in the distant future she saw everything fair and good. Even her
hallucinations did not destroy her hopefulness; though dreading them,
she regarded them as a recurring malady of the brain, which would
presently depart of itself. She could even smile as she sat dreaming in
the pale light of a starlit summer evening, the calendar in her hand,
on which she scratched through each day as it died, with a gold
pencil-case which she had bought on purpose and used for nothing else,
wearing it in a bracelet;--struck it out, with a glad, firm stroke, as
bringing her nearer to the blissful future. And she would even let the
days pass without erasing them severally, that she might have the joy at
the end of a week of making six or seven strokes, one after another, in
a luxury of anticipation.
II.
And now, long as they had been, the days had all stolen by--all, one
after another, beyond recall. The past was more and more the past, and
would for ever remain so; it would never come back to them, she thought,
never haunt them more with hideous memories. She grew calmer; her
nervousness diminished, and something like peace came upon her in her
passionate longing for the happy future; for she was going to be happy
with Frank.
She was now in London again with her father, living very quietly; still
feeling the past, in spite of her present gladness, still conscious of
what had been, in all its misery and its horror. Frank, too, was in
London, in a poorly paid place as assistant overseer in some engineering
works, the only opening he could find by the help of his old
connections; jumping at it, indeed, in consideration of his antecedents,
of which he had no cause to be proud. By-and-by he should get something
better, something more suited to his attainments. And he took up his
studies again to refresh his technical knowledge, which had grown
somewhat rusty.
Sir Archibald had grown much older, and was crippled by attacks of
rheumatism; but he still sat poring over his heraldic studies. Living in
Holland for his daughter's sake, he had too long been out of his own
circle of acquaintance and groove of habit; and though he had from time
to time, in a fit of childish temper, expressed his vexation at Eva's
becoming the wife of a murderer, he now agreed to everything, shrinking
from the world and troubling himself about nothing; only craving to be
left undisturbed in the apathy of his old age. "He knew nothing about
it; old men know nothing of such things. The young people might please
themselves; they always knew best and must have their own way." So he
grumbled on, apparently indifferent, but glad at heart that Eva should
marry Frank, since Frank, if he could be violent, was good at heart;
and Eva would be well cared for, and he himself would have some one to
bear him company in his own house--yes, yes, a little company.
Frank and Eva met but rarely during the week, for he was busy even in
the evenings, but they saw each other regularly on Sundays. And Eva had
the whole week in which to think over the Sunday when she had last seen
him, and she tried to recall every word that he had said, every look he
had given her. On these treasures she lived all the week. She had never
loved him so dearly as now, when crushing depression weighed on him,
which she longed to lighten by the solace of her love. There was
something motherly in her feeling for him, as though his sufferings had
made a child of him, needing a tenderer regard than of yore. She had
loved him then for the mysterious charm, as it seemed to her, of the
contrast between his feeble gentleness and his powerful physique; and
now it was no more than a higher development of the same charm, since
she saw the stalwart, strong man suffering so pitiably under the memory
of what he had gone through, and lacking the energy to rise superior to
it and begin life anew. But this want of vigour did not discourage her
in her hopes for the future; on the contrary, she loved him for his
weakness, while regarding this as singular and incomprehensible in
herself; dreaming over it in her solitude, or smiling with gladness.
For she, as a woman, in spite of her nervous, visionary temperament,
could resolutely forget the past, bravely go forward to meet the future,
compelling happiness to come to her by her sweet patience and elastic
constancy. Had not all the woes of the past lain outside them both? Had
not Frank done penance enough for his fit of rage to hold up his head
again now? Oh, they would soon have got over it completely; they would
insist on being happy, and she would cure him of everything like
heart-sickness.
Thus she hoped on, a long, long time, refusing at first to acknowledge
that he grew more melancholy and gloomy, sinking into deeper and deeper
dejection under his burden. But at last she was compelled to see it,
could no longer blind herself. She could not help seeing that he sat
speechless when she talked so hopefully, listened in silence to her
cheerful words and bright illusions, saying nothing, and sometimes
closing his eyes with a sigh which he tried to suppress. She could not
deceive herself; her sanguine moods aroused in him only an echo of
despair.
And when one day this was suddenly clear to her, she felt, suddenly too,
that her nervous fears had worn her out; that she was sad and ill; that
her courage, her hopes, her illusions were sinking down, down, deeper
and deeper. A bitterness as of wormwood rose up in her, tainting
everything; she flung herself on her bed, in her loneliness,
heart-broken, in utter anguish, and cursed her life, cursed God, in
helpless woe.
III.
Then, circumstances occurred which, in spite of all this, led to its
being settled that they were to be married in quite a short time--in
about six weeks. Frank had been helped by some of his old friends to
obtain an appointment as engineer in a great Glasgow firm; Eva was to
have her mother's fortune; there were no difficulties in the way.
Frank now always spent the whole of Sunday at Sir Archibald's house. He
came to lunch, sitting as silent as ever, and after lunch they were
usually left to themselves. At first the hours flew by, sped by Eva's
day dreams, though she was still, and in spite of herself, somewhat
nervous; they would discuss various matters and even read together. But
then for some little time minute would link itself to minute, while they
did nothing but sit side by side on a deep sofa, holding each other's
hands, and gazing into vacancy. And a moment came when they could no
longer endure that grasp--no longer dared. The image of Bertie, with his
purple, blood-stained face, would rise up between them; their hands
parted--they were both thinking of the dead. Eva felt as if she had been
an accomplice in the deed. As it grew darker intolerable misery would so
overpower her that it seemed as though she must suffocate; then they
would throw the windows open and stand for a long, long time to refresh
themselves in the cool air, looking out over the Park in the gathering
gloom. She listened in dread to Frank's breath as it came and went.
Ay, and she was afraid of him, in spite of her love. After all, he had
committed murder; he could do such things in his rage! Oh! if in a fit
of passion she too--. But she would defend herself; with the strength of
despair she would cling to life. Had she not herself felt strong enough
to kill--? No, no. Not she, surely. She was too timid. And, besides, she
loved him so dearly; she adored him, and soon she would be his wife!
Still, she was afraid.
The Sundays were no longer days so sweet as to leave a treasure of
memory in which she could live through the week. On the contrary, Eva
now dreaded Sunday; she awaited it with terror.... Friday--Saturday....
Here it was again! There was Frank, she heard his step. And still she
was afraid, and still she loved him.
* * * * *
They were sitting thus one evening, hand in hand, and silent. It was
still early in the afternoon, but a storm threatened, and the grey gloom
peered in through the thick lace curtains. Eva, depressed by the heavy
weather, thirsting for some comfort, suddenly, in spite of her fears,
threw herself on Frank's breast.
"I can no longer endure this weather!" she wailed, almost moaning. "This
dark, cloudy sky always oppresses me of late. I want to go to Italy,
Frank, to the sun, the sun!"
He pressed her to him but did not speak. She began to weep softly.
"Say something, Frank," she sobbed.
"Yes; I do not like this heavy sky," he said, dully.
Again there was silence; she tried to control herself, clinging closely
to him. Then she went on:
"I cannot bear up against it; I believe since that rainy day which
overtook us in Molde, so long ago now--five years and more--you
remember--when we had met three or four times, a few days before, at
Dronthjem?" She smiled and kissed his hand, remembering her youth: she
was old now. "You recollect, we got home to the hotel drenched. I
believe I have been ill ever since that day, that I took a bad cold
which settled in me, though at first I did not feel it and said nothing
about it, but which has been undermining me ever since, all this long
time--"
He made no reply; he, too, had a vague recollection of something
tragically painful at Molde, but he could no longer remember what. But
she suddenly burst into a violent fit of weeping.
"Oh, Frank, speak! Say something," she besought him, in despair at his
silence, feeling her terror grow greater in the stillness, and her heart
throbbing wildly in spite of herself.
He passed his hand over his forehead, trying to collect his thoughts.
Then he slowly replied:
"Yes, Eva--for I have something to say to you. Just this very day."
"What is that?" she asked, looking up through her tears, in surprise at
his strange tone.
"I want to speak to you very seriously, Eva. Will you listen?"
"Yes."
"I want to ask you something--to ask you if you would not rather be
free. To ask if you would not be glad that I should release you?"
She did hot immediately understand him, and sat gazing at him
open-mouthed.
"Why?" she said at length, shuddering, terrified lest he should
understand something of what was torturing her soul.
"Because it would be so much better for you, my child," he said, gently.
"I have no right to fetter your life to mine. I am wrecked--an old
man--and you are young."
She clung closely to him.
"No, I am old, too," said she, with a smile, "and I will not have it. I
will be true to you. I will always comfort you when you are out of
heart. And so, together, we will both grow young again, and both be
happy."
Her voice was as sweet as balm; to give him strength she felt something
of her old illusions reviving in her. She would cling to him whatever
the cost: she loved him.
He clasped her tightly to his breast, and kissed her fondly. For the
moment she felt no fear; he was so unhappy.
"You are a dear, good girl," he whispered in a husky, trembling voice.
"I do not deserve that you should be so good to me. But, seriously, Eva,
think it over once more. Consider again whether you would not be
unhappy, nay, wretched, if you had to be with me always. There is yet
time; we have our future lives in our hands, and I cannot spend mine
with you, Eva, only to make yours more miserable than I have done
already. So, for your sake, for your happiness, I would gladly give you
back your word."
"But I will not have it!" she moaned, desperately. "I will not. I do not
understand you. Why should you give me back my word?"
He took her hands caressingly in his own, and looked in her face a long
time, with a sad smile under the gold-coloured moustache.
"Why? Because you--because you are afraid of me, my darling."
A spasm shot through her whole frame, like an electric shock; wildly she
looked at him, and wildly protested:
"It is not true, Frank; I swear it is not true! Great God! Why do you
think that? What have I done to make you think it? Believe me, Frank;
take my word. I swear to you by all that is holy; there. I swear to you
it is not true. I am not afraid of you."
"Yes, yes, Eva, you are afraid of me," he said, calmly. "And I
understand it; it must be so. And yet I assure you, you should have no
cause to be. For I should be a lamb in your hands; I would lay my head
in your hands; your pretty, cold, white hands, and sleep like a child.
You should do with me whatever you would, and I would never be angry
with you, for I could never be so again, never again. I would lie at
your feet; I would feel your feet on me, on my breast, and lie so
still--so calm and blest!--"
He had fallen on his knees before her, with his head in her lap, on her
hands.
"Well, then," she said, gently, "if that is the case, why should I ever
be afraid of you since you promise me this? And why do you talk of
releasing me from my word?"
"Because I cannot bear to live on, seeing you so unhappy; because you
are unhappy with me, as I can see; and because you will be even more so
when we are together, later--always."
She quivered in every fibre. A strange lucidity came over her. She saw
all that had happened as if mirrored in crystal.
"Hear me, Frank," she said, in a clear, bright voice. "Remain where you
are and listen to me; listen well. I mean to be true to you, and we
shall be happy. I feel that we shall. What has occurred that we should
always be miserable? Nothing. I repeat it--nothing. Do not let us spoil
our own lives. I doubted you once; you have forgiven me. That is all at
an end. You discovered that Bertie was a scoundrel, and you killed him.
That, too, is ended. Nothing of all this can matter to me now. I will
never think of it again. It has ceased to exist so far as I am
concerned.--And that is all, Frank. Consider, reflect--that is all.
Nothing else has happened. And that is not much. We are young and
strong; we are not really old. And I tell you we can live a new life,
somewhere, together; somewhere, a long way from London. A new life,
Frank, a new life!--I love you, Frank. You are everything to me. You are
my idol, my husband, my darling, my child, my great child."
She clasped his head passionately to her bosom in a rapture, her eyes
sparkling, and a flush tinging the azalea whiteness of her cheeks. But
his eyes met hers with a look of anguish.
"You are an angel, Eva; you are an angel. But I cannot claim you. For,
listen now to me. The real truth--"
"Well, what is the truth?"
"Bertie was not a scoundrel. He was nothing but a man, a very weak man.
That is the truth.... Listen to me, Eva; let me speak. I thought a great
deal--at Scheveningen--among the sand-hills--you know. I thought over
everything I could remember of what he had said to me in those last
moments, in self-defence; and by degrees all his words came back to me,
and I felt that he had been in the right."
"In the right? Oh, Frank! I do not know what he said in self-defence;
but now, still, shall Bertie's influence come between us to part us?"
she cried, in bitter despair.
"No, it is not that," he replied. "Make no mistake; it is not Bertie's
influence which divides us; it is my guilt."
"Your guilt?"
"My guilt, which rises up before me from time to time, reminding me of
what I have done, so that I cannot forget it, shall never forget it....
Let me tell you. He was right in what he said at last. He was a weak
creature, he said, flung into life without any strength of will. Was
that his fault? He despised himself for having done so mean a thing
about those letters. But he had not known what else to do. Well, and I
forgive him for being weak, for he could not help it; and we are all
weak--I am weak, too."
"But you would never have done such a thing?" cried Eva.
"Because I, perhaps, am different. But I am weak all the same. I am weak
when I am angry. And then--then in my fury, I was utterly, utterly weak.
This is the truth. This is what is crushing me; and, broken as I am, I
cannot be your husband. Oh, what would I not give to have him still
alive! I was fond of him once, and now I could say to him that I do
understand--that I forgive him."
"Frank, do not be so foolish--so foolishly good," she exclaimed.
"Oh, it is not foolish goodness," he said, with a melancholy smile. "It
is philosophy."
"Well, then," she cried, in a hard, rough tone, "I am no philosopher; I
am not foolishly good; I do not forgive him for being a villain, and for
making us miserable. I hate him, hate him, dead as he is. I hate him
for coming between us, and haunting us now that you have killed him, and
for the diabolical influence he still brings to bear on you and on me.
But, I say, I will not have it," she shrieked despairingly, starting to
her feet, but still clinging to him. "I tell you that I will not lose
you for the second time. I swear that if you try to leave me here, I
will stand, holding you fast in my arms, clasping you to me till we both
are dead. For I will not let him part us; I hate him! I am glad you
murdered him, and if he were living now, I would do it myself. I would
kill him, strangle him, strangle him!" She clenched her hands as if she
gripped his throat, and held Frank in her embrace as though he were her
prey.
Out of doors it was growing darker every minute.
He gently released himself, supporting her, indeed, for he felt that she
was tottering in her over-tension of energy and courage. She was staring
out at the weather with her sunken, grey eyes, and she shivered from
head to foot. He led her back to the sofa, made her sit down, and again
knelt before her in more passionate devotion than ever.
"Eva!" he whispered.
"Oh, look at the clouds!" she cried. "It is pouring a deluge."
"Yes," said he. "What does that matter?--I love you."
"I cannot bear up against such weather," she moaned. "It oppresses me
and frightens me--oh, it terrifies me so! Protect me, Frank, shelter me;
come close!"
She drew him to her on the sofa, and, opening his coat, nestled against
him.
"I am so frightened. Hold me tightly--wrap your coat round me. Oh, do
not let it come upon me! Lord have mercy, and do not let it come over
me, again, I beseech Thee!"
It was the visionary thunder she prayed to be spared. And she threw both
arms round her lover, clinging to him as if to hide herself. So she
remained, while he held her close; when, presently, twisting her fingers
into his waistcoat-pocket, she murmured:
"What is this? what have you here?"
"What have you found?" he said, in alarm.
"This, in your waistcoat-pocket?"
"Nothing--a little phial," he muttered. "Some drops for my eyes. I have
been troubled by my eyes lately."
She took out the phial. It was a tiny, dark blue bottle, with a cut
glass stopper and no label.
"For your eyes?" she said. "I did not know--"
"Yes, really," he answered. "Give it me."
But she held it hidden in her two hands, and laughed.
"No, no; I will not give it you. Why are you so uneasy? I shall not
break it. Does it smell? I want to open it, but the stopper has stuck."
"Eva, I entreat you give it me," he implored her, and the perspiration
stood on his brow. "It is nothing but drops for the eyes, and it has no
scent. You will spill it, and it stains."
But she put her hands behind her back.
"It is not for the eyes, and you have nothing the matter with yours,"
she said positively.
"Yes--really--"
"No; you are deceiving me. It is.... it is something else--is it not?"
"Eva, give it to me."
"Does it take effect quickly?" she asked.
"Eva, I insist. Give it me!" he repeated, angry now, and at his wits'
end.
He threw his arm round her, and tried to seize her wrists; but he only
grasped one empty hand, while the other flung the phial over his head on
the floor. There was a little clatter of falling glass, and before he
could rise she had thrown her arms round him again, dragging him down
among the cushions.
"Let it lie there," she murmured with a smile. "It is broken. I have
broken it for you. Tell me, why did you carry that about with you?"
"It is not what you fancy," he replied, still on the defensive.
"So much the better.--Why did you have it?"
He sat silent for a moment. Then, yielding to her insistence, he said:
"To take it--when all was at an end between us--in the evening, of
course."
"And now you cannot do so."
"Perhaps I can manage to buy some more," he said, with a gloomy laugh.
"But why is everything to be at an end between us?"
He was suddenly quite serious, mocking no more at life and death.
"For your sake, my angel; for your happiness. I beseech you, let it all
be ended. Let me feel that I no longer need make you wretched. You may
yet be happy; but I--I feel that everything in me hinders my ever being
happy, and all happiness must begin in ourselves alone."
"And do you think I shall let you go now, that you have just told me
what you would do in the evening?"
"But you are not to think that I should do it only for your sake. I
always go about with that in my pocket. I have often thought of doing
it; but then I have thought of you, and I lacked courage; for I know
that you love me only too well."
"Not too well. I have lived in you. But for you I should never have
truly lived."
"But for me you might have lived with another, and have been happy."
"No. Never with any other. That could never have been. I had to live
with you. It was Fatality."
"Ay, Fatality. Bertie used to say--"
"Do not mention Bertie."
As she spoke the rain dashed against the window panes in a perfect
torrent.
"It is always raining," she murmured.
"Yes--always," he mechanically repeated. She shuddered and looked in his
face.
"Why do you say that?" she asked quickly.
"I do not know," said he, startled and bewildered. "I really do not
know. Why, what did I say?"
They both were silent. Then she began again.
"Frank!"
"My darling."
"I will not let you leave me again. Not even for a day. I shall always
be in terror for you."
"Let there be an end to everything, my child."
"No, no. Listen. Let us be together for ever. For ever and ever. Let us
lie down to sleep--while it is still raining."
"Eva!"
"Together. You say yourself that everything in you fails of happiness,
and that nevertheless happiness must come from within. Well, it is the
same with me. And yet we love each other; do we not?"
"Yes, yes."
"Then why should we remain awake in this weariful life? It is always,
always raining. Give me a kiss, Frank. A good night kiss, and let us
sleep while it rains. Let me go to sleep in your arms--"
"Eva, what do you mean?" he asked, hoarsely, for he did not understand
her.
"I broke the phial--broke it for you," she went on wildly. "But you can
always get another?" An icy chill shot through his very marrow like a
sudden frost.
"God in heaven, Eva! What do you want?"
She smiled at him calmly, with a soft light in her beaming eyes, and she
threw her arms round him.
"To die with you, my dearest," she whispered as in an ecstasy of joy.
"What good can life do us? You were right. You can never be happy again,
and I can ever be happy with you. And yet I will not leave you, for you
are all in all to me. Then how can we live, or why? But, oh, Frank, to
die together, in each other's arms! That is the greatest bliss! A kindly
poison, Frank, nothing painful. Something easy to take, that we can take
together, and clasp each other, and die--die--die--" Frank shuddered
with horror.
"No, Eva, no!" he cried. "You must not wish that, you cannot wish that!
I forbid it."
"Oh, do not forbid it," she said persuasively, falling on the floor and
embracing his knees. "Let us share the same fate: that will be bliss.
All about us will be rose colour and gold and silver, like a glorious
sunset. Oh, can you imagine anything more beautiful? Frank, that is
happiness, the happiness we have looked for--which every one in this
world is looking for. It is Paradise! It is Heaven!"
He was not carried away by her rapture, but her words tempted him as
with the promise of a brief joy in this life and an unutterably peaceful
rest in death. He could say no more to dissuade her, to check her in the
heavenward flight of her fancy; but still he reflected that there were
no means at hand, since the phial was broken.
Eva had risen, irresistibly attracted to the spot where the phial had
fallen. She stooped and picked it up. It had fallen into the drapery of
a curtain; it was not broken, only cracked and chipped. Not a drop had
been spilt.
"Frank!" she screamed, in her frenzied gladness. "It is not broken!
Look! It is whole. It is Fate that would not allow it to be broken."
He too was standing up, quaking with an icy chill. She had already
forced out the stopper and half emptied the phial with a mad, ecstatic
smile.
"Eva!" he shrieked.
And quite calmly, smiling still, she handed it to him. He looked at her
for a moment, feeling as if they two were already no longer of this
world, as if they were floating in a sphere of unknown natural laws, in
which strange things must come to pass. The world, as it seemed, was
about to perish in that deluge of pouring rain. But he saw that she
stood waiting with her strange smile--and he drank.
It was quite dark; they lay on the sofa side by side, in each other's
arms. He was dead. She raised her head in an agony of alarm at the storm
which was raging outside, and that other storm which was raging in her
dying body. The lightning glared white and the thunder was close
overhead. But louder than the echoes in the air the thunder came rolling
on towards Eva, nearer and nearer, louder and louder, a supernatural
thunder, on the wheels of the spheres.
"It is coming!" she murmured, in the anguish of death. "Great heavens!
the thunder again!"
And she sank convulsed on the body of her lover, hiding her head under
his coat, to die there.
Then came a shuffling step in the passage outside the dark room. An old
man's thin voice twice called the name of Eva; and a hand opened the
door.
The End.